


so long we become the flowers

by moomimob



Category: 1917 (Movie 2019)
Genre: Canon Divergence, Comfort, Gen, M/M, Song fic, can be read as platonic, hozier inspired im sorry, idk if I can tag this as graphic violence or not, it’s not graphic but the whole fic is them dying, no beta take my mistakes as a creative writing decision pls i am emotional, schofield’s family is ambiguous because i didn’t want to debate the wife or sisters thing, they are going by their last names because I said so >:(, they are stabbed, they both die :(
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:33:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24249601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moomimob/pseuds/moomimob
Summary: Blake twitched his hands, surprised to find them already beneath Schofield’s. The realization was dawning on him. A sliver of light reflected in his eyes, Blake frowned. "Are we dying?"Schofield can feel it, the increased difficulty in finding coherent thoughts. Lucidity was slipping through his fingers, pushing out between the cracks and painting his knuckles dark red."Yes, I think we are."
Relationships: Tom Blake & William Schofield, Tom Blake/William Schofield
Kudos: 26





	so long we become the flowers

**Author's Note:**

> this is cheesy yes and probably doesn’t work but. i do not Care i just wanted to get this out. not really graphic? they're just dead and i wanted to be careful. O this is based on the song in a week by hozier ft. karen cowley

“We should put him out of his misery.”

It was a serious suggestion, but Blake insisted they help, only briefly considering Schofield’s words. 

”He needs water,” he replied, cradling the pilot’s head in his hands. Schofield could see the gentleness in Blake’s fingers, overshadowed by the contorted face of pain it held between them. He grimaced.

The water was tinted yellow and carried a strange smell, but it was water nonetheless. Schofield hastily worked the pump until it overflowed, the cool liquid feeling like fire against the fingers holding his cap. He hurried back.

Blake poured water over the German pilot’s leg, earning a surprised scream. Through hushed apologizes he tried to explain that he wasn’t sure if this is what he should do, but figured it made the most sense. He made Schofield get more, and by the fourth full cap, their heart rates returned to as close to normal as they could get. The grass was wet with spilt water, emitting the strange damp smell that came when two untended and spoiled things met. 

Schofield allowed himself to glance away from the pilot. Kneeling over him and besides his friend, he turned to Blake, who offered a sheepish smile of relief. Schofield returned it instinctively, and only set his face hard again when the question of _what now?_ began to formulate in his head. Blake was also set to ask, and his lips were parted with prepared speech when the knife came.

The pilot had taken the opportunity to drive the weapon into Blake, turning before Schofield could grab his gun. He pushed the knife through Schofield's upper thigh, sending him to harmonize with Blake's own agonized and confused screaming. The pilot began to scramble up, gritting his teeth through the pain of his burnt legs. It was futile though, as Schofield found the trigger before the pilot got far and before the reality of the wound overtook him. It only took two bullets, and Schofield watched the pilot collapse. 

Blake had already stood, panicking and pushing open his coat. The mantra of _Oh God, No, Jesus, No,_ was spilling from his paling lips. A sick cringe twisted his face.

”Blake?” Schofield turned to see his friend, collapsing on the ground. _Think, think, think,_ the words flooded his dizzying head. Schofield could see that Blake had it worse, as crimson spread through the bottom of his shirt. He had been stabbed in the stomach, and the blood was already staining his trousers. For a brief moment it reminded Schofield of the water pump, the way it coursed out aggressively after the initial struggle.

This was not a water pump, it was his friend. 

Schofield crawled to Blake, his legs unable to find strength. He glanced at his thigh, groaning in pain. Schofield's pants were maroon with blood and he could make out an open wound underneath the torn cloth. He swallowed, staring down at the muscle and skin layered like a deep ruby geode. Schofield could only stomach the sight for so long, and was immediately snapped out of his morbid fascination when he heard the frightened, "Sco?" accompanied by a loud _thud_. 

Schofield crawled faster, dragging himself to Blake's fallen body. He was panicking, his pulse echoing in his ears. Blake's face was nearly white now, and his blue eyes were searching frantically. "We have to stop the bleeding." Schofield's voice was shaky as he pulled Blake onto his lap, hoping that his friend's thighs could apply enough pressure to distract Schofield from his wound in the meantime.

Schofield's own paling hands found the roll of now crimson-twinged cloth in Blake's loose grasp. He pushed down on his friend's stomach, ignoring Blake's shouting. 

"Stop it. Stop it!" He thrashed. Blake's face was contorted and only softened after he whimpered. 

Schofield attempted to comfort him through the haze of his own pain. The leg that wasn't burning was going numb under Blake's weight. "It's alright, it's alright." 

Blake's eyes focused on the face above him. "No, no, you were stabbed too, weren't you?" His hands searched Schofield's torso for blood, grasping at his shoulders and passing his lower stomach. "Where is it?"

"You're sitting on it."

"Oh." His voice was almost calm. "Oh, oh God, no." Blake out in pain. "No, Sco, you've been hit - oh God, oh..." 

"We need to stand," Schofield tried to find a commanding voice. "It's just my leg, I can carry you to an Aid Post. Blake, we're going to stand now, yeah?"

Blake wailed. Through gritted teeth he spat out _yes, yes_. Blake planted his feet on the ground and tried to lift himself, accidentally pushing down on Schofield. Schofield winced, trying to move past the seizing agony. The two had only made it a few inches above the grass when Schofield's knees buckled and sent them hard on the floor. 

"Again," Schofield figured it'd be easier to support Blake from the shoulders and moved to set his head in his lap. With his hands under Blake's arms, the two tried again. They managed to walk back a bit before they both began to wail and drop. 

"Go," Blake pleaded. "Just bring a doctor. You can make it- go, I'll catch up."

"We have to go together," Schofield pleaded. His voice was faltering. In a fit of desperation, Schofield tried to drag Blake's body up and backwards with him. 

This did not go as planned. "Stop it, please!" Blake cried. "Let me go! Let me go, you bastard, please! Stop it!" He twisted, the shrill and frustrated screams filling the rolling grass hill.

Schofield's knees failed and they were on the grass again. "We have to keep moving." He moved again to Blake's side, his arms framing him gently. 

"Let's just sit... you need to sit... let me just sit..."

As tempting as that sounded, Schofield shook his head. "We can't. We have to find the second. Remember? Your brother? We have to go now..." The words were a struggle, with his head beginning to swim. He instinctively pushed his right hand in his coat, feeling for the comfort of the tobacco tin, and let his left cradle Blake's head, feeling for the comfort of his presence. The panic was increasing, drowning out everything else. Schofield's focus was spread incredibly thin, between thoughts of the mission, Blake, Blake's family, his _own_ family, and his wound, he was beginning to lose his grip. 

Blake's eyes glazed over as the barn behind them burned on. Soft yellow embers rained down on them. 

Confused, Blake asked, "What are they? Are we being shelled?"

Schofield struggled to answer. He was distracted by the bits of fire, watching them twirl against the pale blue sky. "They're embers, the barn is on fire," he whispered. He holds Blake close to him now, his own hands covering his friend's. The skin feels damp as they press against each other, tightened fingers flexing to make sure the contact isn't broken. The fear is slowly ebbing away. 

"We've been hit... what was it?"

"We were stabbed."

Blake twitched his hands, surprised to find them already beneath Schofield’s. The realization was dawning on him. A sliver of light reflected in his eyes, Blake frowned. "Are we dying?"

Schofield can feel it, the increased difficulty in finding coherent thoughts. Lucidity was slipping through his fingers, pushing out between the cracks and painting his knuckles dark red."Yes, I think we are." 

Blake reached into his tunic, searching. Schofield fought the tiredness falling on him and joined Blake's prying fingers. He pulled out a wallet, and after a sleepy confirmation from Blake, opened it. Inside, a photo of Blake with his mother and brother stared back. Schofield held it up for Blake to see before setting it in his friend's hands, who in turn held the photograph against his breast. 

"What will they do? The letter... my brother... how..?"

It took a moment for Schofield to register the question, pushing down the urge to stop carding his recently freed hands through Blake's hair in favor of finding the photograph of Schofield's own family in his pocket. "I - I don't know." He couldn't lie, even if he wanted to. 

Tears were streaking Blake's face now, and Schofield was surprised to notice not all of them were his own.

"I'm sorry - I didn't know. I'm sorry." Blake was referring to their argument before. "Sorry, sorry, sorry..."

"I know," Schofield whispered, dropping his forehead to Blake's. "I know, it's alright; I know." 

"You... are you alright?"

"No... no, I don't think so..."

"Oh..." There was a pause. "You would have liked him, you know... My brother. He looks like me, he's a bit older..." 

Schofield hummed, closing his eyes. All he could stand to be aware of was Blake's body under his, their hands intertwined and labored breathing beginning to synch. 

"Sco?"

"Hmm?" Schofield opened his eyes. He found himself getting lost in Blake's own, the once almost obnoxiously bright blue a faded sky grey. He felt his heart break at the sight of Blake's soft face draining, slowly turning to a whisper of the young man he knew. 

"I wish my mum knew I wasn't scared... I love them... you... I love you, too... I wish that... I wish..." 

"I know. I know I know. I love you, too... It's alright." Schofield's thumb met Blake's wrist, where his vein dully throbbed, slowing with each pump. 

The weight shifted in Schofield's lap. Nothing is heavier than the dead body of someone you loved. Schofield could do nothing but look down at the ghost of his friend, hands too weak and cold to pull out the tobacco tin in his tunic. He tried to convince himself to stand for a few minutes, and then tried to convince himself that the image of his young friend resting in his lap was as comforting as the photos he had stashed away, but the still wet blood between his lips betrayed the possibility of pretending this was just another quick nap. Blake's face was white and free of lines, but that couldn't trick Schofield's brain into thinking the hand he was holding was any warmer. He didn't have to wait long until his vision began to dim. Schofield slumped back, laying down with Blake in his arms as the embers buzzed around them. 

The barn continued to burn. The grass was sickly wet with blood which seeped into the soil. The two bodies slept on the red, which spread out beneath them like a picnic blanket of carnage. Birds began to sing, joining the river just beyond for a lament that fell on deaf ears. The creaking groan of wood collapsing and plants bathing in orange licks of fire created a sweet melody. 

The men who eventually found them were kind enough to move the bodies to the river after searching for identification. They did not find the letter.

They left soon after, abandoning the bluish corpses to rot in peace with the scorched house and barn. The uncovered hands slowly decomposed, and what was in cloth soon followed. Between the yellowing bone, small white flowers began to pop above the soil. 

**Author's Note:**

> pls assume that schofield got hit in an artery, which would explain why a stab wound to his thigh bled out so fast. also let homies say i love u to each other pls this is an au in which toxic masculinity didnt exist in the 1900s. thank you. 
> 
> p.s "nothing is heavier than the dead body of someone you loved" as well as some dialogue is taken from the script. they rlly said that huh ok im weak. if u wanna point out any typos that’d be really cool 🥺


End file.
